# Chapter 3- The Gallery

Isabella made the call at exactly 8 PM.

Gregory Whitmore had a voice like aged bourbon—smooth, expensive, with an underlying burn. He'd confirmed everything Vincent said. The list existed. Her name—Aria Laurent—was being added with a backdated approval memo citing "overlooked European lineage." It would be finalized within forty-eight hours.

"This never happened," Whitmore had said before hanging up. "And if anyone asks, you've been on this list since the will was written."

Now, three days later, Isabella stood in the Hastings Gallery watching staff make final preparations for tonight's private viewing. The Rothko piece—a magnificent study in deep reds and blacks—dominated the main wall, dramatically lit to emphasize its emotional intensity.

She'd chosen her outfit with surgical precision: a black silk slip dress by The Row, elegant and understated with a neckline that hinted without revealing. Her dark hair was swept up, exposing her neck and collarbones. Diamond studs—her grandmother's, one of the few real pieces she'd kept from her old life. Red lipstick, subtle enough to be classy, bold enough to be memorable.

Aria Laurent, art consultant. Sophisticated. Untouchable. Perfect.

"Ms. Laurent?" 

Isabella turned to find Marcus Chen, the gallery owner, approaching with a tablet. "The guest list is confirmed. Thirty-seven attendees, including several major collectors and—" he paused meaningfully, "—Damien Blackwell."

"Excellent." Isabella kept her voice professional, but her pulse quickened. "Has he confirmed his attendance?"

"His assistant called an hour ago. He'll be here at seven-thirty." Marcus smiled. "Having a Blackwell at our viewing will attract significant attention. Whatever you did to interest him, it's working."

*You have no idea*, Isabella thought.

Over the past three days, she'd received two more texts from Damien. Brief, professional, but consistent. He was circling, interested but cautious. Exactly as she'd hoped.

Vincent had also been in contact, providing detailed intelligence: Damien's schedule, his business vulnerabilities, his personal habits. The man had resources that were almost frightening. But Isabella had been careful not to rely on him too much. Vincent Castellano was a means to an end, nothing more.

"I'll do a final walkthrough," Isabella said, taking the tablet from Marcus. "Make sure everything is perfect."

She moved through the gallery, checking sight lines, lighting, champagne placement. But her mind was elsewhere, running through tonight's plan.

Step one: Reestablish connection with Damien. Build on the intrigue from the gala.

Step two: Demonstrate value. Show him she's not just another socialite but someone with genuine expertise and connections.

Step three: Plant the seed. Make him think of her as someone who could be useful in his world.

The marriage would come later, once trust was established. Once he believed she was exactly what she appeared to be.

By six-thirty, guests began arriving. Isabella slipped into her role seamlessly, greeting collectors, discussing the Rothko's provenance, facilitating introductions between potential buyers and sellers. This was where Aria Laurent shined—cultured, knowledgeable, effortlessly charming.

At seven twenty-eight, she felt him enter before she saw him.

The energy in the room shifted. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Heads turned. Damien Blackwell commanded space simply by occupying it.

He wore a navy suit tonight, crisp white shirt, no tie. More relaxed than at the gala but no less imposing. His dark eyes scanned the room with predatory efficiency, cataloging faces, assessing threats and opportunities.

Then his gaze found her.

Isabella felt the impact like a physical touch. She was across the room, mid-conversation with a Japanese collector, but somehow everything else faded into background noise.

She didn't rush over. Didn't even acknowledge him beyond a brief nod. Instead, she returned her attention to Mr. Tanaka, laughing at something he'd said, completely composed.

*Make him come to you.*

It took fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of her circulating, discussing art, pointedly not seeking Damien out. She could feel his attention tracking her movements, a weight between her shoulder blades.

Finally, as she stood alone studying a smaller abstract piece in a quieter corner of the gallery, she heard his voice behind her.

"You're avoiding me, Ms. Laurent."

Isabella turned slowly, one eyebrow raised. "Am I? I was under the impression I was working."

Damien stepped closer, hands in his pockets, studying her with those unnerving dark eyes. "You've spoken to every other person in this room. Except me."

"I assumed you came to view art, not make small talk."

"I came because you organized this viewing." He said it matter-of-factly, without pretense. "The art is secondary."

Isabella's heart skipped, but she maintained her cool exterior. "How refreshingly honest."

"I told you—I prefer honesty." He glanced at the painting she'd been studying. "Though I'm curious why you're hiding in this corner instead of showing off the Rothko to potential buyers."

"I'm not hiding. I'm taking a moment to actually look at the art instead of treating it as a commodity." She gestured to the piece—a dynamic composition of blues and whites. "This is a Hans Hofmann. 'The Gate,' 1959. Everyone's focused on the Rothko because it's famous and expensive. But this piece is technically superior. The layering, the tension between colors, the way he creates depth through pure abstraction."

Damien studied the painting with new interest. "You actually care about this."

"Why else would I do it?"

"Money. Prestige. Access to wealthy collectors." He looked at her. "The usual reasons people work in high-end art."

"Those are your reasons for doing things, Mr. Blackwell. Not mine."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or respect. "Damien. If we're going to have honest conversations, we might as well use first names."

"Aria." She extended her hand as if they were meeting for the first time.

His handshake was firm, warm, and lasted a fraction longer than necessary. Isabella felt that unwelcome flutter again, the one that had haunted her since the gala.

*He's the enemy. The son of the man who destroyed your family.*

"So, Aria." Damien released her hand but didn't step back. They stood close enough that she could smell his cologne again, that cedar and bergamot that was becoming dangerously familiar. "Tell me something honest."

"About?"

"Why you interest me."

The directness caught her off guard. Most men played games, circled, hinted. Damien just... asked.

"I couldn't tell you that," Isabella said carefully. "I don't know you well enough to know what interests you."

"Then let's fix that." He gestured toward the gallery exit. "Have dinner with me."

"Now?"

"Unless you're too busy working."

Isabella glanced around the gallery. The viewing was going perfectly—guests engaged, sales happening, Marcus handling everything smoothly. She could leave.

But should she? Moving this quickly felt dangerous, like rushing into a trap.

Then again, opportunities didn't always arrive on schedule.

"One condition," Isabella said.

"Name it."

"We don't talk about business. No Blackwell Industries, no gallery sales, no networking." She met his gaze steadily. "Just two people having dinner."

Damien's mouth curved into something that almost resembled a smile. "Agreed. Though I should warn you—I'm not particularly good at 'just having dinner.' I tend to turn everything into business."

"Then tonight will be educational for you."

"I'm counting on it."

Twenty minutes later, Isabella found herself in the back of Damien's car—a sleek Mercedes with privacy glass and leather that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. The driver knew where to go without being told.

"Where are we going?" Isabella asked, suddenly aware of how much control she'd surrendered. Alone in a car with a man she was planning to destroy. A man who could—if he knew the truth—destroy her first.

"You said no business. That includes no predictable business dinners at overpriced steakhouses where I might run into associates." Damien stretched his legs out, looking more relaxed than she'd seen him. "So I'm taking you somewhere I actually enjoy."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Probably." He glanced at her. "But something tells me you're not easily intimidated."

*If only you knew.*

They drove for thirty minutes, leaving Manhattan behind for Brooklyn. The car pulled up in front of a modest Italian restaurant with a hand-painted sign: "Giordano's."

Isabella looked at Damien in surprise. "This is where you enjoy eating?"

"My mother was Italian. Before she died, she used to bring me here every Sunday." He opened his door, then paused. "If you were expecting Michelin stars and celebrity chefs, I can take you somewhere else."

"No." Isabella's voice came out softer than intended. She hadn't expected this—a glimpse of something real beneath the billionaire armor. "This is... unexpected."

"Good. I like keeping you off balance."

The restaurant was warm and loud, filled with families and laughter and the smell of garlic and fresh bread. The owner—a round woman in her sixties—took one look at Damien and let out a cry of delight.

"Damien! *Ragazzo*! Where have you been? Two months!"

"I've been busy, Mama Rosa." He let himself be pulled into a crushing hug, and Isabella saw genuine affection in his expression. "I brought someone tonight. This is Aria."

Mama Rosa turned her formidable attention to Isabella, eyes sharp and assessing. "Aria. Pretty name. You Italian?"

"My grandmother was," Isabella lied smoothly. Actually, her grandmother had been Irish, but Aria Laurent's fabricated background included an Italian grandmother from Tuscany.

"Good. Good." Mama Rosa patted her cheek. "You eat. I make special for you both."

They were shown to a corner table, away from the main crowd but still part of the restaurant's vibrant energy. Mama Rosa disappeared into the kitchen without taking their order.

"She doesn't believe in menus," Damien explained. "You eat what she makes, and you like it."

"And if you don't like it?"

"Then you lie convincingly, because Mama Rosa has a wooden spoon and she's not afraid to use it."

Isabella laughed—a real laugh, not calculated or performed. The sound surprised her. "You come here often?"

"When I need to remember who I was before..." He trailed off, then changed direction. "Before business consumed everything. My mother died when I was sixteen. Pancreatic cancer. It was fast and brutal. After she was gone, my father became obsessed with the company, with building the empire. I think he was trying to outrun grief. Instead, he just became more ruthless."

Isabella's chest tightened. She wanted to hate Victor Blackwell purely, completely. But grief was something she understood intimately.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "Losing a parent is..."

"Devastating," Damien finished. "Especially when you're young. Everything changes. You become someone you weren't supposed to be."

*Yes,* Isabella thought. *You become someone who spends three years planning revenge because grief and rage have nowhere else to go.*

But she couldn't say that. So instead, she said, "Your mother would have been proud that you still come here."

"Maybe." Damien studied her across the table. "What about you? Your parents?"

Dangerous territory. Isabella had prepared for this question, built an entire backstory. "My father passed five years ago. Heart condition. My mother lives in France now, retired."

All lies. Her father was dead three years, not five. Her mother was in a care facility in New Jersey, barely able to speak after her stroke. But Aria Laurent's parents were conveniently absent without being tragically dead enough to inspire too much sympathy or investigation.

"That must have been difficult," Damien said. "Were you close?"

"Very." That much was true. Isabella had worshipped her father—his kindness, his integrity, his belief that business could be conducted with honor. "He taught me that success means nothing if you compromise your soul to achieve it."

She watched Damien's reaction carefully. Would he hear the implicit criticism of his family's methods?

But Damien just nodded slowly. "My mother said something similar. She hated what the business did to my father, how it changed him. She used to tell me, 'Don't let the money make you forget how to be human.'"

"Did you listen?"

"I tried. But it's hard to be human in a world that rewards ruthlessness." He leaned back as Mama Rosa arrived with wine and a basket of bread. "You either adapt or you get destroyed."

*Or you destroy first,* Isabella thought, breaking off a piece of bread. *Like your father destroyed mine.*

The food arrived in waves—antipasti, handmade pasta, osso buco that fell off the bone. They ate and talked, and Isabella found herself caught in a strange disconnect. She was here to manipulate Damien, to make him trust her, to execute her revenge. But the man across from her wasn't the monster she'd built in her mind.

He was complicated. Damaged. Real.

"You're thinking too hard," Damien observed, refilling her wine glass. "I can see it in your face. The wheels turning."

"I'm wondering if this is who you really are," Isabella said honestly. Well, as honestly as she could while lying about everything else. "Or if this is another mask."

"Both." He didn't hesitate. "I'm whoever I need to be in any given situation. Right now, with you, I'm choosing to be someone closer to authentic. But make no mistake, Aria—masks are necessary. The world is full of people waiting to exploit weakness."

"And is this authentic version a weakness?"

"Maybe." Damien's dark eyes held hers. "But something about you makes me willing to risk it."

Isabella's breath caught. This was exactly what she wanted—his trust, his openness, his vulnerability. So why did it feel like a betrayal instead of a victory?

"Why me?" she asked softly. "You don't know me."

"I know enough. You're intelligent, cultured, not impressed by money or status. You speak your mind. You have passion for what you do." He paused. "And you're hiding something."

Isabella's blood ran cold. "What?"

"Everyone's hiding something, Aria. The question is whether it's something that matters." Damien leaned forward. "I'm hiding the fact that I hate running Blackwell Industries. That I'd burn it all down tomorrow if I could, except I'm trapped by duty and expectation and a grandfather who manipulates from beyond the grave."

The confession hung between them, raw and unexpected.

"Why tell me this?" Isabella whispered.

"Because I'm tired of playing games with everyone in my life. And because—" He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "—because I want to know if whatever you're hiding is something we can work around, or something that will make this impossible."

"Make what impossible?"

"Whatever this is becoming."

Isabella should pull back. Should maintain distance. Should remember that every word, every touch, every moment was part of the plan.

Instead, she found herself turning her hand over, letting her fingers intertwine with his.

"I'm hiding who I used to be," she said—the most honest thing she'd said all night. "Before I became successful. Before I learned to play the game. That person was weak and naive and got hurt badly enough that I had to rebuild from scratch."

It was true, even if the specifics were lies.

Damien's thumb traced circles on her palm. "I understand that better than you know."

They sat there for a long moment, hands linked across the table in a moment that felt both calculated and terrifyingly real.

Then Mama Rosa appeared with dessert—tiramisu and espresso—and the spell broke.

As they ate, the conversation shifted to safer topics. Art, travel, favorite books. Isabella was careful to remember every detail Damien revealed, cataloging it for future use while simultaneously trying not to think about how his hand had felt in hers.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was nearly midnight. The drive back to Manhattan felt different from the drive out—charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.

"I'll have my driver drop you at your apartment," Damien said.

"That's not necessary—"

"It's late. And I'm not ready for this evening to end, so I'm buying myself a few more minutes of your company."

Isabella gave him her address—the small but elegant apartment in the West Village that she'd rented as part of her new identity. Another piece of the carefully constructed lie.

When the car pulled up outside her building, Damien walked her to the door despite her protests.

"Thank you for tonight," Isabella said, meaning it more than she wanted to. "It was... unexpected."

"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Damien smiled—a real smile this time, warm and slightly crooked. It transformed his face, made him look younger, less burdened. "Then I'll have to convince you it was good."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"By doing this again. Soon." He stepped closer, and Isabella's heart hammered. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, and she had no idea whether she wanted him to or not.

But instead, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle. "Goodnight, Aria."

"Goodnight, Damien."

Isabella watched him return to the car, watched it disappear down the street. Then she went inside, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and closed the door behind her.

Only then did she let herself shake.

She'd done it. She'd gotten closer to Damien Blackwell, earned his interest, maybe even a fragment of his trust. The plan was working perfectly.

So why did she feel like she'd just stepped off a cliff with no idea where she'd land?

Her phone buzzed. A text from Vincent Castellano: *"Well played. But remember—he's not your friend. He's your target. Don't forget which one you are."*

Isabella deleted the message and poured herself a drink—whiskey, neat, the way her father used to drink it.

"I haven't forgotten," she whispered to the empty apartment. "I'll never forget."

But when she closed her eyes, she saw Damien's smile. Felt his hand in hers. Heard him say, *"Whatever this is becoming."*

And she realized with growing dread that she was no longer entirely sure which mask was the lie—Aria Laurent, the sophisticated art consultant, or Isabella Mor# **THE CALCULATED BRIDE**

## **Chapter 3: The Gallery**

---

Isabella made the call at exactly 8 PM.

Gregory Whitmore had a voice like aged bourbon—smooth, expensive, with an underlying burn. He'd confirmed everything Vincent said. The list existed. Her name—Aria Laurent—was being added with a backdated approval memo citing "overlooked European lineage." It would be finalized within forty-eight hours.

"This never happened," Whitmore had said before hanging up. "And if anyone asks, you've been on this list since the will was written."

Now, three days later, Isabella stood in the Hastings Gallery watching staff make final preparations for tonight's private viewing. The Rothko piece—a magnificent study in deep reds and blacks—dominated the main wall, dramatically lit to emphasize its emotional intensity.

She'd chosen her outfit with surgical precision: a black silk slip dress by The Row, elegant and understated with a neckline that hinted without revealing. Her dark hair was swept up, exposing her neck and collarbones. Diamond studs—her grandmother's, one of the few real pieces she'd kept from her old life. Red lipstick, subtle enough to be classy, bold enough to be memorable.

Aria Laurent, art consultant. Sophisticated. Untouchable. Perfect.

"Ms. Laurent?" 

Isabella turned to find Marcus Chen, the gallery owner, approaching with a tablet. "The guest list is confirmed. Thirty-seven attendees, including several major collectors and—" he paused meaningfully, "—Damien Blackwell."

"Excellent." Isabella kept her voice professional, but her pulse quickened. "Has he confirmed his attendance?"

"His assistant called an hour ago. He'll be here at seven-thirty." Marcus smiled. "Having a Blackwell at our viewing will attract significant attention. Whatever you did to interest him, it's working."

*You have no idea*, Isabella thought.

Over the past three days, she'd received two more texts from Damien. Brief, professional, but consistent. He was circling, interested but cautious. Exactly as she'd hoped.

Vincent had also been in contact, providing detailed intelligence: Damien's schedule, his business vulnerabilities, his personal habits. The man had resources that were almost frightening. But Isabella had been careful not to rely on him too much. Vincent Castellano was a means to an end, nothing more.

"I'll do a final walkthrough," Isabella said, taking the tablet from Marcus. "Make sure everything is perfect."

She moved through the gallery, checking sight lines, lighting, champagne placement. But her mind was elsewhere, running through tonight's plan.

Step one: Reestablish connection with Damien. Build on the intrigue from the gala.

Step two: Demonstrate value. Show him she's not just another socialite but someone with genuine expertise and connections.

Step three: Plant the seed. Make him think of her as someone who could be useful in his world.

The marriage would come later, once trust was established. Once he believed she was exactly what she appeared to be.

By six-thirty, guests began arriving. Isabella slipped into her role seamlessly, greeting collectors, discussing the Rothko's provenance, facilitating introductions between potential buyers and sellers. This was where Aria Laurent shined—cultured, knowledgeable, effortlessly charming.

At seven twenty-eight, she felt him enter before she saw him.

The energy in the room shifted. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Heads turned. Damien Blackwell commanded space simply by occupying it.

He wore a navy suit tonight, crisp white shirt, no tie. More relaxed than at the gala but no less imposing. His dark eyes scanned the room with predatory efficiency, cataloging faces, assessing threats and opportunities.

Then his gaze found her.

Isabella felt the impact like a physical touch. She was across the room, mid-conversation with a Japanese collector, but somehow everything else faded into background noise.

She didn't rush over. Didn't even acknowledge him beyond a brief nod. Instead, she returned her attention to Mr. Tanaka, laughing at something he'd said, completely composed.

*Make him come to you.*

It took fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of her circulating, discussing art, pointedly not seeking Damien out. She could feel his attention tracking her movements, a weight between her shoulder blades.

Finally, as she stood alone studying a smaller abstract piece in a quieter corner of the gallery, she heard his voice behind her.

"You're avoiding me, Ms. Laurent."

Isabella turned slowly, one eyebrow raised. "Am I? I was under the impression I was working."

Damien stepped closer, hands in his pockets, studying her with those unnerving dark eyes. "You've spoken to every other person in this room. Except me."

"I assumed you came to view art, not make small talk."

"I came because you organized this viewing." He said it matter-of-factly, without pretense. "The art is secondary."

Isabella's heart skipped, but she maintained her cool exterior. "How refreshingly honest."

"I told you—I prefer honesty." He glanced at the painting she'd been studying. "Though I'm curious why you're hiding in this corner instead of showing off the Rothko to potential buyers."

"I'm not hiding. I'm taking a moment to actually look at the art instead of treating it as a commodity." She gestured to the piece—a dynamic composition of blues and whites. "This is a Hans Hofmann. 'The Gate,' 1959. Everyone's focused on the Rothko because it's famous and expensive. But this piece is technically superior. The layering, the tension between colors, the way he creates depth through pure abstraction."

Damien studied the painting with new interest. "You actually care about this."

"Why else would I do it?"

"Money. Prestige. Access to wealthy collectors." He looked at her. "The usual reasons people work in high-end art."

"Those are your reasons for doing things, Mr. Blackwell. Not mine."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or respect. "Damien. If we're going to have honest conversations, we might as well use first names."

"Aria." She extended her hand as if they were meeting for the first time.

His handshake was firm, warm, and lasted a fraction longer than necessary. Isabella felt that unwelcome flutter again, the one that had haunted her since the gala.

*He's the enemy. The son of the man who destroyed your family.*

"So, Aria." Damien released her hand but didn't step back. They stood close enough that she could smell his cologne again, that cedar and bergamot that was becoming dangerously familiar. "Tell me something honest."

"About?"

"Why you interest me."

The directness caught her off guard. Most men played games, circled, hinted. Damien just... asked.

"I couldn't tell you that," Isabella said carefully. "I don't know you well enough to know what interests you."

"Then let's fix that." He gestured toward the gallery exit. "Have dinner with me."

"Now?"

"Unless you're too busy working."

Isabella glanced around the gallery. The viewing was going perfectly—guests engaged, sales happening, Marcus handling everything smoothly. She could leave.

But should she? Moving this quickly felt dangerous, like rushing into a trap.

Then again, opportunities didn't always arrive on schedule.

"One condition," Isabella said.

"Name it."

"We don't talk about business. No Blackwell Industries, no gallery sales, no networking." She met his gaze steadily. "Just two people having dinner."

Damien's mouth curved into something that almost resembled a smile. "Agreed. Though I should warn you—I'm not particularly good at 'just having dinner.' I tend to turn everything into business."

"Then tonight will be educational for you."

"I'm counting on it."

Twenty minutes later, Isabella found herself in the back of Damien's car—a sleek Mercedes with privacy glass and leather that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. The driver knew where to go without being told.

"Where are we going?" Isabella asked, suddenly aware of how much control she'd surrendered. Alone in a car with a man she was planning to destroy. A man who could—if he knew the truth—destroy her first.

"You said no business. That includes no predictable business dinners at overpriced steakhouses where I might run into associates." Damien stretched his legs out, looking more relaxed than she'd seen him. "So I'm taking you somewhere I actually enjoy."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Probably." He glanced at her. "But something tells me you're not easily intimidated."

*If only you knew.*

They drove for thirty minutes, leaving Manhattan behind for Brooklyn. The car pulled up in front of a modest Italian restaurant with a hand-painted sign: "Giordano's."

Isabella looked at Damien in surprise. "This is where you enjoy eating?"

"My mother was Italian. Before she died, she used to bring me here every Sunday." He opened his door, then paused. "If you were expecting Michelin stars and celebrity chefs, I can take you somewhere else."

"No." Isabella's voice came out softer than intended. She hadn't expected this—a glimpse of something real beneath the billionaire armor. "This is... unexpected."

"Good. I like keeping you off balance."

The restaurant was warm and loud, filled with families and laughter and the smell of garlic and fresh bread. The owner—a round woman in her sixties—took one look at Damien and let out a cry of delight.

"Damien! *Ragazzo*! Where have you been? Two months!"

"I've been busy, Mama Rosa." He let himself be pulled into a crushing hug, and Isabella saw genuine affection in his expression. "I brought someone tonight. This is Aria."

Mama Rosa turned her formidable attention to Isabella, eyes sharp and assessing. "Aria. Pretty name. You Italian?"

"My grandmother was," Isabella lied smoothly. Actually, her grandmother had been Irish, but Aria Laurent's fabricated background included an Italian grandmother from Tuscany.

"Good. Good." Mama Rosa patted her cheek. "You eat. I make special for you both."

They were shown to a corner table, away from the main crowd but still part of the restaurant's vibrant energy. Mama Rosa disappeared into the kitchen without taking their order.

"She doesn't believe in menus," Damien explained. "You eat what she makes, and you like it."

"And if you don't like it?"

"Then you lie convincingly, because Mama Rosa has a wooden spoon and she's not afraid to use it."

Isabella laughed—a real laugh, not calculated or performed. The sound surprised her. "You come here often?"

"When I need to remember who I was before..." He trailed off, then changed direction. "Before business consumed everything. My mother died when I was sixteen. Pancreatic cancer. It was fast and brutal. After she was gone, my father became obsessed with the company, with building the empire. I think he was trying to outrun grief. Instead, he just became more ruthless."

Isabella's chest tightened. She wanted to hate Victor Blackwell purely, completely. But grief was something she understood intimately.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "Losing a parent is..."

"Devastating," Damien finished. "Especially when you're young. Everything changes. You become someone you weren't supposed to be."

*Yes,* Isabella thought. *You become someone who spends three years planning revenge because grief and rage have nowhere else to go.*

But she couldn't say that. So instead, she said, "Your mother would have been proud that you still come here."

"Maybe." Damien studied her across the table. "What about you? Your parents?"

Dangerous territory. Isabella had prepared for this question, built an entire backstory. "My father passed five years ago. Heart condition. My mother lives in France now, retired."

All lies. Her father was dead three years, not five. Her mother was in a care facility in New Jersey, barely able to speak after her stroke. But Aria Laurent's parents were conveniently absent without being tragically dead enough to inspire too much sympathy or investigation.

"That must have been difficult," Damien said. "Were you close?"

"Very." That much was true. Isabella had worshipped her father—his kindness, his integrity, his belief that business could be conducted with honor. "He taught me that success means nothing if you compromise your soul to achieve it."

She watched Damien's reaction carefully. Would he hear the implicit criticism of his family's methods?

But Damien just nodded slowly. "My mother said something similar. She hated what the business did to my father, how it changed him. She used to tell me, 'Don't let the money make you forget how to be human.'"

"Did you listen?"

"I tried. But it's hard to be human in a world that rewards ruthlessness." He leaned back as Mama Rosa arrived with wine and a basket of bread. "You either adapt or you get destroyed."

*Or you destroy first,* Isabella thought, breaking off a piece of bread. *Like your father destroyed mine.*

The food arrived in waves—antipasti, handmade pasta, osso buco that fell off the bone. They ate and talked, and Isabella found herself caught in a strange disconnect. She was here to manipulate Damien, to make him trust her, to execute her revenge. But the man across from her wasn't the monster she'd built in her mind.

He was complicated. Damaged. Real.

"You're thinking too hard," Damien observed, refilling her wine glass. "I can see it in your face. The wheels turning."

"I'm wondering if this is who you really are," Isabella said honestly. Well, as honestly as she could while lying about everything else. "Or if this is another mask."

"Both." He didn't hesitate. "I'm whoever I need to be in any given situation. Right now, with you, I'm choosing to be someone closer to authentic. But make no mistake, Aria—masks are necessary. The world is full of people waiting to exploit weakness."

"And is this authentic version a weakness?"

"Maybe." Damien's dark eyes held hers. "But something about you makes me willing to risk it."

Isabella's breath caught. This was exactly what she wanted—his trust, his openness, his vulnerability. So why did it feel like a betrayal instead of a victory?

"Why me?" she asked softly. "You don't know me."

"I know enough. You're intelligent, cultured, not impressed by money or status. You speak your mind. You have passion for what you do." He paused. "And you're hiding something."

Isabella's blood ran cold. "What?"

"Everyone's hiding something, Aria. The question is whether it's something that matters." Damien leaned forward. "I'm hiding the fact that I hate running Blackwell Industries. That I'd burn it all down tomorrow if I could, except I'm trapped by duty and expectation and a grandfather who manipulates from beyond the grave."

The confession hung between them, raw and unexpected.

"Why tell me this?" Isabella whispered.

"Because I'm tired of playing games with everyone in my life. And because—" He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "—because I want to know if whatever you're hiding is something we can work around, or something that will make this impossible."

"Make what impossible?"

"Whatever this is becoming."

Isabella should pull back. Should maintain distance. Should remember that every word, every touch, every moment was part of the plan.

Instead, she found herself turning her hand over, letting her fingers intertwine with his.

"I'm hiding who I used to be," she said—the most honest thing she'd said all night. "Before I became successful. Before I learned to play the game. That person was weak and naive and got hurt badly enough that I had to rebuild from scratch."

It was true, even if the specifics were lies.

Damien's thumb traced circles on her palm. "I understand that better than you know."

They sat there for a long moment, hands linked across the table in a moment that felt both calculated and terrifyingly real.

Then Mama Rosa appeared with dessert—tiramisu and espresso—and the spell broke.

As they ate, the conversation shifted to safer topics. Art, travel, favorite books. Isabella was careful to remember every detail Damien revealed, cataloging it for future use while simultaneously trying not to think about how his hand had felt in hers.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was nearly midnight. The drive back to Manhattan felt different from the drive out—charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.

"I'll have my driver drop you at your apartment," Damien said.

"That's not necessary—"

"It's late. And I'm not ready for this evening to end, so I'm buying myself a few more minutes of your company."

Isabella gave him her address—the small but elegant apartment in the West Village that she'd rented as part of her new identity. Another piece of the carefully constructed lie.

When the car pulled up outside her building, Damien walked her to the door despite her protests.

"Thank you for tonight," Isabella said, meaning it more than she wanted to. "It was... unexpected."

"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Damien smiled—a real smile this time, warm and slightly crooked. It transformed his face, made him look younger, less burdened. "Then I'll have to convince you it was good."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"By doing this again. Soon." He stepped closer, and Isabella's heart hammered. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, and she had no idea whether she wanted him to or not.

But instead, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle. "Goodnight, Aria."

"Goodnight, Damien."

Isabella watched him return to the car, watched it disappear down the street. Then she went inside, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and closed the door behind her.

Only then did she let herself shake.

She'd done it. She'd gotten closer to Damien Blackwell, earned his interest, maybe even a fragment of his trust. The plan was working perfectly.

So why did she feel like she'd just stepped off a cliff with no idea where she'd land?

Her phone buzzed. A text from Vincent Castellano: *"Well played. But remember—he's not your friend. He's your target. Don't forget which one you are."*

Isabella deleted the message and poured herself a drink—whiskey, neat, the way her father used to drink it.

"I haven't forgotten," she whispered to the empty apartment. "I'll never forget."

But when she closed her eyes, she saw Damien's smile. Felt his hand in hers. Heard him say, *"Whatever this is becoming."*

And she realized with growing dread that she was no longer entirely sure which mask was the lie—Aria Laurent, the sophisticated art consultant, or Isabella Moretti, the girl driven by revenge.

Maybe they were both lies.

Maybe the only truth was the dangerous electricity she felt when Damien Blackwell looked at her like she mattered.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

---

**End of Chapter 3**

Would you like me to continue with Chapter 4?etti, the girl driven by revenge.

Maybe they were both lies.

Maybe the only truth was the dangerous electricity she felt when Damien Blackwell looked at her like she mattered.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.